He says his mother has a couple of months.
—Chen Chen
So I wind up, and quickly,
talking about anything and
everything. It’s a thing I do
that ingratiates me with a
stranger or two. I don’t do
this with strangers very
often. Nowadays, strangers
are all I have. “Including my
self,” he said. “So you like
talking anything and every
thing with almost anyone,
even the occasional stranger?”
I couldn’t open my mouth,
thinking this must sound a
bit like therapy. This isn’t
therapy. I don’t like to talk
much. “That’s the craziest
thing I ever did hear, dear.”
He is just the coolest thing
ever. Like a computer, I can
feel the whoosh of my thoughts
as they go through the massive
bundle of stuff I, myself, would
rather ignore. For now. Maybe
forever. Which, as it turns out,
seems like a very, very small
amount of time. Time was
when thoughts did not go
about whooshing. Slide
shows that zip through
the carousel, giving the
audience but a mere
glimpse of most every
slide. What each must
wonder when they go
so swiftly through my
memories. His precious
pressured speech got all
clogged up. Time was
a square wheel. “Oh,
to be young again!”
he thought, and then
he collapsed into a
crumple onto the floor
where he now lays. Just
on the other side of that
great big orange sofa.
[The lights dim to dark.]
[The lights dim to dark.]
